Not Danger, But Inevitable Destruction
by sprl1199
Summary: A speculation on Jim Moriarty via fanfiction.  Spoilers for The Great Game.


**Not Danger, But Inevitable Destruction**

First Sherlock fic! Just a one-shot based on some theories about Jim Moriarty as *the* Moriarty that I've seen bandied about the comms. I'm sure it will be *swiftly* disproved once series 2 starts (soon? she asked hopefully), but at that point we can look back and remember how much fun we had theorizing!

Heaps of thanks to finangler for being the Best Beta Ever (I'm having cards printed).

About 1500 words; rated PG-13 for implications of violence and murder. Could be pre-slash if you so desire; otherwise, gen.

**Spoilers **for The Great Game.

_Disclaimer_: Not mine! At all. Just having fun with them.

* * *

"Ah, such a sad little puppy," James breathed, watching for the Army man's flinch. He wasn't disappointed.

"Shouldn't have wandered so far, should you? London is _such _a big place."

John Watson was standing very still against the cinder block wall of the dressing room, as though afraid that if he jostled the bomb it would explode prematurely. James could have enlightened him on the mechanics involved, the physics ensuring that nothing so ludicrous would happen, but he didn't. He doubted he would be able to comprehend anyway.

"Oh John, John, Johnny-boy," James sang into the transmitter. "Your master should learn to be more careful with his pets."

"You're mad." His voice was hoarse but firm. Despite his show of bravery, James could see his eyes darting about as he tried in vain to locate the voice at the other end of his ear piece. A knot was beginning to form on his head from where he had been struck leaving the apartment on Baker Street.

James giggled. "Oh, not hardly."

He sobered quickly and allowed a hint of deadly intent into his tone. "What I am, Major, is bored. Your renowned 'consulting detective'-" and here his tone was mocking "-is supposed to _be _here for our tête-à-tête. I would have expected him to arrive early."

He sniffed, childishly. "And here I thought he was _enjoying _our little game."

"I won't help you hurt him," John Watson said, his frozen pose shifting from that of a cornered animal into something closer to military readiness. James could see the soldier scanning the upper story, clearly trying to pinpoint Jim's location. Wanting to ensure that if the chance arose, he would take Jim out too.

Jim smiled.

"Oh but you will! Because I have spent so _much _time scripting this scene, and if I _don't _get to see it played to completion- Well, there's little reason for me _not _to have your flatmate killed the moment he gets in range. Imagine, such a bright light snuffed out all at once. It would be such a _senseless _tragedy."

Watson closed his eyes briefly and swallowed hard. "What do you **want**?" he asked.

James felt his smile shifting into something fierce and mad. "Oh," he said calmly. "So many things."

_"Dim-my Jim-my! Dim-my Jim-my!" the other boys had called, led by that wanker Carl. And it had all been so __**perfect**__: his revenge executed, silencing those voices forever. The future open ahead of him and he could do __**anything**__, an apprentice in the art of crime._

"Aren't you a clever boy?" the man had murmured, a small approving smile set below eyes that were endlessly cold.

Training and learning and _finally _being appreciated for his brilliance. And then that first discordant note in the symphony of his life.

"Well, well," the man said over breakfast and the paper. "It seems somebody noticed that you sentimentally kept young Mister Powers's shoes and has gone to the police. How very sharp of him. And so young too."

James, mouth full of buttered toast that had gone to dust at the uncharacteristic tone underlying his new guardian's voice, looked up at him.

The man's eyes were focused and bright, **interested**. He cut the clipping out of the newspaper with his usual economy of movement. And it was then that James had begun to hate, to **loathe **the name of Sherlock Holmes, soon to be the world's only consulting detective.

It didn't seem to matter what strides he made or the sheer artistry of his criminal endeavors: making contacts within the Chinese Triads, arranging for the movement of weapons in Sierra Leone, locating the world's most accomplished forgers and thieves and subtly nudging them all in a mutually beneficial direction. He would return to the manor, and the growing file on Sherlock Holmes would be waiting to greet him; not obvious in its placement on the shelf, but never far from reach.

Then, there came that _thrice damned _website, and there was never any escape from the man's exploits, up and glowing for the world to see. To marvel at.

And finally, not too long ago, James returned to find his guardian sitting pensively at his desk. "The Science of Deduction" was open on the browser, as it often was, and the man was staring out the tasteful stained glass window to the gardens beyond, face fixed in concentration.

He looked up as James entered and offered a mechanical smile in greeting.

"The time has come to make the opening gambit," he said, his cold eyes fixed on James and his fingers pressed together in a classic pose of introspection.

"Sir?" James asked, unwilling or unable to make the leap of logic his mentor obviously expected him to.

The man's eyebrows raised slightly in mock surprise. "Why, in a game with Sherlock Holmes, of course." His mouth twitched slightly in something more authentic than the smile that had been there before.

"Your **rival**."

James knew better than to pretend he didn't understand the threat implied in that statement.

"What are we going to do?" he asked instead.

"_We _are going to do nothing. You are going to draw young Mr. Holmes out. Engage his attention. Test him."

He tilted his head very slightly. "It will be...intriguing to observe which of the two of you will come out on top."

James had to take a moment to master himself. "Of course, sir." He wet his lips, mouth dry. "But tell me, why now?"

"Young Mr. Holmes did not have the benefit of your upbringing. He needs to be taught the folly of emotional attachment."

His mentor's eyes shifted to the computer screen, holding a hunger and fascination that was never present when he looked at James. "It would have been impossible to teach him until now. One must have something to lose in order to fully appreciate the lesson," he said softly.

"I'll see to it, sir," James said, forcing his frozen lips to respond as he turned.

"And James?" his mentor's voice stopped him as he headed for the door.

The man's face was tranquil, but his eyes relayed a deadly intensity as he spoke.

"I _want _him alive. Do keep that in mind."

James nodded and then left, his mind filled with a nonsensical humming while his throat choked with a rage he dared not express.

Five bombs and 30 million pounds later, and there he was, staring across the few meters separating him from the object of this charade. This man who was staring back with eyes that were clever and focused and altogether lovely and _James __**hated **__him._

It didn't occur to him until after he had left the pool, gauntlet thrown and warning delivered, that he could just kill him. There were no security cameras functioning in the vicinity; James had seen to that. He could do it. The snipers he had hired were highly trained and being paid extraordinarily well. He could attribute the death to an accidental misfire or miscommunication. Or perhaps idiotic heroics on the part of the man's ridiculously loyal tagalong.

_His mind buzzed._

Returning to the scene, his entire being sang with the thought that finally, **finally **he would be rid of Sherlock Holmes. His elation was palpable, and he couldn't stop a giggle from escaping as he chanted threats to the pair in that sing-song tone that had haunted him since his childhood.

_Dim-my Jim-my. _

_Dim-my Jim-my. _

He was going to do it! He was going to **win**!

Until his mentor's voice, as calm and untouched as ever, was transmitted through his earpiece, a tiny and subtle piece of equipment he always wore when out in the field.

"Oh, James," he sighed. "This is a pity."

James stood frozen as the red laser sights moved from their placement on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and danced along his own torso. The detective and his flatmate were clearly confused by the turn of events, but made no move from their positions crouched against the wall, each attempting to cover the other.

James felt a bitter bile rise in his mouth as he watched them.

"I believe my instructions were clear," his mentor continued. "You should have remembered your place."

The transmission cut off abruptly, leaving only a ringing silence in James's ear. He turned his face upward to the night sky and grinned humorlessly.

"Well fancy _that_," he murmured. He lowered his gaze to make contact with the startled gray eyes of the detective, taking a fierce vindictive pleasure in the knowledge that this moment, that **James, **would haunt him for the rest of his days.

It seemed only fair.

The snipers fired.


End file.
